Waiting for the Bullet by Mark Morris
We arrived at the main gates, above which a big sun-bleached sign proclaimed: Welcome to Frisco. The main site was ringed with police vehicles, behind which a chain-link fence topped with razor wire stretched away on both sides. Armed cops in helmets and flak jackets were patrolling bad-temperedly, their faces red and sweating, eyeballing the steady dribble of people going inside. I suppose, when you thought about it, it was pretty amazing that even seven years after the first fatality these sites were still so popular.